Posted in Unexpected

Last Word

Care always needed to be exercised with David
rapid witted and bayonet tongued.
Monstrously funny
thunderously black
hilarity could become attack with no warning.

His prejudices fitted around him
like squeaky ill fitting shoes
discomfiting and proclaiming.
Self image intended throwaway effacement – but drew attention.

Born and raised in a privileged enclave
disparaging of
but quick to invoke birthright.
Not a snob
but his address book fell open at pages to impress.

Defensive and reluctant to be generous
quick to deride or diminish.
Whatever someone had done
he had done.
Bigger. Bolder. Better.

brittle chimera of self
breathes savage, brilliant humour.
One night
group discussion of a fringe acquaintance
about whom there was uncertainty.

Charity yields to spite
insults escalate
until the black humourist strikes say dirt.
“The best part of that guy
ran down the inside of his old man’s leg.”



Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.